Stage Fright
by Very Festive
Summary: Give in.You know you want to.He's so pretty.But it's so wrong.Fantasies too vile to be put into words are fulfilled.Beware of adult themes,situations,and less-than-polite sexual behavior.Like every other Joker/OC you've read but with a very festive flair.
1. Id

_I don't own any characters, storylines, settings, etc. from the Dark Knight and other Batman media. I don't own the Joker - he owns me. _

_Warning: This is little more than fangirlish smut brought on by a recent viewing of The Dark Knight. My inspiration was pretty much events in my life at this time and fantasies that I had about him after seeing the movie for a second time. (Droooool.)_

**Chapter 1: Id**

"C-C-C-C-C-C, A-A-A, A Minor, F-F-F-F-F, G-G-G, G seventh...." Arnie Davidson's adorable wail reached me even behind layers and layers of thick velvet drapery.

There was the shuffling of feet onstage and then the director's shrill cry: "No! No! No!" The piano music screeched to a halt and there was the angry sound of a pair of flamboyant high heels going up the side stairway.

"Hold your arms like this. No, no, no, Frenchy! All right, and when it comes to the next part, you do the step-touches, remember? Just like Deb told you?"

I sighed and leaned against the railing that ran along the network of ropes and pulleys that held up the complex curtain system. They had already run the song three times and it still wasn't up to Mrs. Gay's standards. I would be singing "Those Magic Changes" until next year.

"Smile, everyone! You're enjoying yourselves!" she cried as staccato clicks descended the side steps. "From the beginning!"

I didn't much like being Miss Lynch, especially not in this scene where my only purpose was to run on and break up the whole number. I had been so excited when Hermés told me that I was going to be her understudy. Me actually standing onstage and speaking lines! Not just standing upstage and pretending to chat with others and singing backup. But no sooner had I conquered the tremors in my hands than the novelty wore off. I had such a hard time being a crabby English teacher. I was much better fitted to my actual role as a cheerleader. I often caught myself hopping up and down and chatting animatedly with a group of girls when I was supposed to be overseeing the imaginary punchbowl at the high school hop with an iron fist.

I wondered what Hermés was doing in France as I listened to water dribble through a pipe behind the formidable black concrete wall beyond the maze of ropes. Hell, I wondered what Bonnie was doing just a few feet away in the audience. I felt like I had been stuck backstage forever.

The door clanked open and I jumped with the sudden noise; the conversation and directions onstage had reduced to a murmur, cushioned by layers of fabric. The rack of brightly-colored dresses for the high school hop scene shuddered and the jumbo-sized Barbie dresses rustled in their plastic dry cleaner bags. It must have been one of the stage moms; they were fitting girls for dresses in room 216. I couldn't wait to get mine. I wondered if it would be the same flouncy lilac one that I had worn last year for the "Blow Gabriel, Blow" scene in _Anything Goes_.

Cheerfully humming "It's Delovely" to myself, I wove my way through the curtains to peer through a gap in the set to see what was going on onstage. Gritty dust and dirt crunched under my character shoes as I climbed the small set of stairs. It got so dirty onstage. The boys were always filthy when they finished the "Greased Lightning" dance, covered in a film of pale particles and bits of sawdust from construction....

I was suddenly interrupted in my reflection. It all happened in a flash. I didn't even hear anyone come up behind me before a gloved hand clamped itself over my mouth. The sticky, rubbery fabric pressed against the lower half of my face and I felt suddenly claustrophobic and panicky. I fought the urge to scream bloody murder; even in my terror, I still feared Mrs. Gay being angry at me for interrupting rehearsal.

"Shh. There, there beautiful," a voice purred close to my ear.

I struggled against the vice-like grip on my jaw to look at the person who was speaking, not because of the menacing, almost laughing tone or because I recognized the voice that had been in staticky recordings on the news quite frequently, but because I was shocked and confused. No one ever called me beautiful. I finally succeeded in turning my head. At this point, I realized that it was more serious than a friend or acquaintance running up behind me and trying to scare me out of my wits; he wanted me silent. All I could see of my captor was a red gash on a pale face.

"Shh," the voice reiterated. The red gash contorted and buckled to reveal teeth. A tongue darted out to moisten the red paint. I knew at once who stood so very, very close to me. It was all I could do not to lose consciousness, though that would have made the ordeal much more tolerable.

"If I let go, do you promise to be absolutely silent?"

His other hand, clothed in the same wretched material, let my wrists free and reached up to stroke my chin. Hating the awful pulling sensation on my skin, I brought my arms up and tried desperately to push them away.

"Ah-ah-ah," a lock of his slimy hair trailed across my face as his hand clamped on my neck. I wanted to vomit. "Now will you be quiet or won't you?"

I nodded feverishly. Anything to be free of those putrid-smelling fingers. All at once, I was free from his grasp. I staggered for a moment before clattering off of the platform behind the set. I threw myself into the corner, past the rack on which some red, white, and blue costumes from last year's show remained, along with a furry black cat suit and various other old costume components. I tripped over a tupperware container and stumbled to a halt beside a box of masks. I look frantically from the eyeless white plastic face on the floor to the white face distorted by a red gash and two dribbling pools of black that drew closer and closer by the minute. My vision blurred with tears and in his flamboyant costume, he seemed to blend in with the colorful racks and props backstage.

"The Joker!" I cried, my voice strangled and hopeless.

"Oh-oh! Shh!" he brought a finger to his lips. "You promised."

Closer and closer. Measured steps, his purple shoes quiet on the scuffed black floor.

And then something very odd happened. Words flew out of my mouth no louder than a whisper - things that one would expect someone to say in my position. But after each sentence, a little ghostlike voice in my head spoke up.

"No! No! No!"

_Yes! Yes! Yes!_

"Don't come any closer!"

_Closer! Closer, please! Touch me!_

"Leave me alone!"

_Never leave me!_

"I don't want any trouble!"

_I want you!_

"It's okay, I just wanna... talk," he responded to the horror in my expression.

I couldn't believe the things that my own mind was conjuring. How disgusting! I was suddenly recalled to general psychology class. Something about the id and the ego - the personality being like an iceberg with the tiny bit of our thoughts that are acceptable being shown and the rest - the dark and dangerous urges - are hidden beneath the surface. No wonder I had suppressed such atrocious ideas. I fought to push them back again, but the floodgates had been opened. I suddenly saw how broad his shoulders were, how muscular his arms were, how very tall he was, how big his shoes were.... I realized how handsome his face was beneath the makeup, even with the scars. In fact, even the scars became sexy - kinky. I wanted to lick them.

I gave a gasp, slapping my hands over my mouth as if I'd spoken this sentiment aloud. How could I ever think such a thing! It was wrong!

"Sh-Shh," he stepped still closer, moving more slowly and tentatively as he approached, as if not wanting to frighten a skittish woodland animal. "I just want to talk to you."

My eyes locked on his as he loomed over me. I pressed my back to the standing cabinet against the wall and looked up at him. He towered over me, perhaps an inch or two between our bodies, not touching me, but framing my short stature with his mammoth build. I sucked in a little breath, breathing in his scent - it was suddenly intoxicating, a sweet musk, but also with a hint of danger - gun powder, oil, and blood. His face was so close....

He raised his hands, as if unsure what to do next. He looked as if he was about to speak. Things stayed like that for a moment, suspended in time. A lazy strain of piano music floated through the curtains, the costumes racks, the boxes of props. Our gaze never broke. He stared at me. I stared at him. In the blink of an eye, his tongue lashed out, running across his lips. It was an immediate reaction - like flipping a switch. I was propelled forward as if my a sudden spring being released. I grasped his face with my hands and closed the slim distance between our lips. I was a women driven no longer by sense and reason, but by urges and wants. My id.

The deed was done in a fraction of a second. I released his face, balling up my fists and bringing them to my face. He stared down at me with confusion and shock. I felt my eyes welling up and brought my fists to my eyes, trying to curl as far into a ball as I could without touching his body, which stood so very close to mine. I could just reach out and take hold of it... no! I was a filthy, evil thing, just like him. Worse!

"Well," he said at length.

What would he do? Kill me? Laugh at me? Call me a freak and a psycho? Or just turn and leave? For some reason, that last one seemed the hardest to bear.

"It wasn't what I was expecting," he said slowly. "But I won't say that I didn't like it."

I uncovered my eyes and looked up into his face, searching it to see if he was mocking me, being sarcastic. As I looked, his face broke into a maniacal grin and he gave a cackle that I'm sure everyone onstage and in the auditorium heard. But before they could investigate, he was gone, me thrown effortlessly over his shoulder and spirited away.

_[I hope that you enjoyed this! I was completely inspired when I went to see The Dark Knight for a second time. I really don't like action movies, but I adored this, solely for Heath Ledger's portrayal of the Joker. (Okay, and the explosions.) He was just smex in a purple suit a basquillion times over. Salivation city. Sadly, I have a history of infatuation with strange, disfigured, and/or psychotic men - Edgar Alan Poe, Salvador Dalí, The Coffin Maker from Volume 3 of Godchild, and countless inanimate boyfriends (notably a backpack and a wall)_._ So I started thinking of what would happen if I lived in Gotham and ran into the Joker. I tried to make it as realistic and un-Mary Sue-like as possible. I apologize sooo much if it was just one of those awful self-insertation OC fics that just makes everyone go braindead as soon as they read it. I wanted it to be a story about this normal-ish girl (in the acting troupe, small group of friends, not very popular with guys) who suddenly has all of these devious desires.]_

_In the Next Chapter: Smutsmutsmut. Rape warning (if it can be called rape - she totally wants it). Joker makes a sex tape. Woo-hoo! I'm just letting my fantasies run rampant here. My apologies. _


	2. Our Little Show

_Beware! Lemon ahead! Rape is bad! Don't read if unkind sexual practices offend you!_

**Chapter 2: Our Little Show**

He slipped skillfully past the stage moms. Even in my upside down state, I could notice that.

"Where we gonna do this? Where we gonna do this?" he muttered to himself as he lumbered down the brightly-lit hallway.

He was tinkering with something in the hand that wasn't holding me on his shoulder. I struggled to twist around to see what it was - something technological. I was so un-savvy about computers. It could have been a camera or a communication device of some sort. Or maybe even a bomb. Oh God, he wasn't going to blow me up, was he?

He took a sharp turn and headed down the 300 wing where the freshmen had their lockers. He stopped at each door, jiggling the handle hastily before moving on to the next. We tried my participatory government class, my humanities class, my psychology class, my creative writing class. All locked.

"Ah, here we go," the knob turned and the door floated open.

I expected him to charge right in in the state he was in, but instead, he let the door close and set me down roughly on my feet. My legs quavered beneath me and my hand flew out to steady myself on his arm. He took no notice of it; he was tinkering with the object in his hand. Nevertheless, I blushed. I noticed that what he held was indeed a video camera. I knew enough about gadgets to identify that one.

While he was grumbling to himself, I threw a hasty glance back down the hall to the auditorium. If they continued, the end of the scene would be coming soon. What would happen when they noticed I wasn't there? Would they even notice? They often forgot all about Miss Lynch's line and went right into the next scene.

In a flash, he had my chin in his sticky, purple hand and wrenched my face to look at him. He had my attention 100% again.

"All right, all ya gotta do is look scared and scream 'no' a lot," he gave the side of my face a little slap. "Ya got it, doll?"

I nodded slowly, panic once more rising in my chest. His features appeared more frightening in the shadowy hallway, illuminated at the very end with harsh fluorescent fixtures. But his appearance and expression still retained that alluring tone of animalistic craziness that somehow ensnared my senses. What exactly was he planning to do, I wondered?

"Lookin' good already," he threw me a wink before flipping the camera on and turning the lens on his own face. "Hello, Gotham," his voice descended into a growl that I tried hard not to find incredibly attractive. "It's me, again. Joined this time by my lovely assistant."

He grabbed my arm and jerked it hard. I went crashing against his rock-like body and he held me there. I could feel the horrible texture of his glove through the fabric of my shirt. But I could also feel his muscular build beneath his impeccably tailored suit.

"What's your name, beautiful?"

There it was again... "beautiful."

"D-Donna," I replied.

"Donna," he looked down at me with half-lidded eyes. My heart gave a skip. "My lovely _young_ assistant, Donna."

With this, he reached around with the hand that wasn't holding the camera and took hold of my hair. I gave a little cry at the sudden, vicious movement and at the ferocious expression on his face before he closed the distance between our lips. He wasn't fooling around. His tongue snaked into my mouth in a no-nonsense, hungry way. No romance, just lust. I leaned deeper into the kiss, savoring the strange, unusual, and delicious taste of his mouth that I hadn't had time to fully appreciate in the stumbling, unsure kiss that happened backstage. I suspected that he hadn't brushed his teeth in a long time, but his mouth tasted as if all he had done during this time was drink hot, thick, sweet maple syrup. It was delectable and I lapped at his lashing tongue until his words echoed in my head: "All ya gotta do is look scared and scream 'no' a lot." He wanted me to fight him. I struggled to reorganize my thoughts, my arms wriggling between us. His unoccupied hand was everywhere - my chest, my back, my legs - bruising and greedily clawing. Hot breath poured from him nose, showering my face in a syrupy scent that mimicked how his mouth tasted. I balled my fists against the silky texture of his vest and pushed hard, forcing a strangled cry out of the back of my throat. He stumbled backward, still keeping a hand firmly pressed on my lower back. I looked down to see that his legs were straddling my hips. I couldn't be sure, but I could have sworn that the fabric of his pants buckled and strained, telling of arousal. My mouth hung open and I looked back at his face. His eyes gleamed in an evil way, holding my gaze before he turned the same frightening expression on the camera.

His finger moved on the camera and a little green light blinked on the front. He let the arm holding it fall and threw the door to the classroom open once more. This time, he shoved me through. I collided with one of the desks in the front row. He rushed past me and appraised the room before he began pushing desks backwards, hurriedly setting up the camera on a tripod that he had brought from the depths of his jacket.

As I looked around the room to quiet the nausea and anxiousness that ran rampant in my consciousness, I was struck by nostalgia. This had been the room where I had ninth grade English. I had loved that class. We read _Great Expectations_, _Romeo and Juliet_, _Nectar in a Sieve_. And I had the sweetest teacher. She was a stout little Italian woman with a Brooklyn accent and hearty laugh. When reading something she really enjoyed, her voice used to sing down the hallway and back, emotions dripping from the work. She was just like a grandmother, walking up and down the aisles, giving the occasional noogie or hug and affectionately calling us "meatball," "mommy," "cherub," or our name with "-arooski" or a rhyming word attached to the end. "Donna-do," she'd called me.

Gloved hands grabbed me roughly and turned me to face the red, black, and white face. There was something entirely unholy about the Joker being in this room. I felt as if I had to cover my freshman self's eyes.

"Yeah, yeah...." he said to himself, throwing a look over his shoulder.

He walked me over to the empty space beisde the teacher's desk.

"Kneel," he commanded.

I obliged. He ran his vomitous gloves through my hair and rumpled my shirt. His fingers paused over the top few buttons before he quickly recoiled.

"All in good time," he muttered to himself.

He turned away from me and headed to stand beside the camera on the desk. I watched his back as he removed his jacket and threw it on a chair. As he rolled up the sleeves of his blue patterned shirt, I watched the movement of his shoulder blades. I wanted to run my hands across the fabric, to feel his body underneath. Instead, I clasped my hands tight in my lap, watching him run his hands through his hair in an almost pensive, worried manner. And then it was gone. He turned and hopped behind the camera, fiddling with the lens before thrusting his head around and motioning to me.

"This way. This way. Move your legs... yes, just like that. And slump your shoulders... great!"

I was unpleasantly reminded of the creepy photographer who had taken my senior photo. He had always dressed in purple and had the most suspicious wide-eyed expression always plastered on his face.

"Now you have to look freaked out," he flexed his hands, the leather gloves giving sick squelching noises. "Like... well, like you're about to be raped. Try to work up some tears, if you can."

Here, he gave an odd little cackle and everything seemed to click into place. He was going to rape me and send the film to news stations - just like the video of him killing the fat batman wanna-be. I tensed as he stared at me, hand hovering over the "on" button and licking his lips nonstop. My heartbeat picked up the pace when I suddenly realized that this would be my first time... and that it was going to be on TV. I had no idea what I was doing and it was going to be on TV for horrified Gothamites to see. I hoped that it would turn out very fuzzy - I was very insecure about my body. But you would have thought that I was freaking Angelina Jolie or Britney Spears the way the Joker was looking at me. It was a little unsettling, really. I was suddenly fearful that he'd be really disappointed once my clothes were off. I was hopelessly flat-chested and had awful acne scars all over my chest and back. Maybe he should have chosen another girl wandering backstage. As I thought of this, I dropped my eyes to the dirty linoleum and watched as two measly spots of moisture pattered from my eyes.

"That's more like it!" he cried. "Aaaand... action!"

I let myself get swept up in the emotion. I was an actress, god damn it. If I could be Miss Lynch, I could be a terrified girl about to be taken advantage of. I'd seen enough bad Sci Fi channel movies.

"Hey there, Donna," his voice dropped once more to that seductive purr and I gave a pathetic little hiccup. "Why so glum, sweetheart?"

"Please... just let me go," I begged, again letting my mouth do the talking without the little voice in my head getting in between.

Here, he left the camera and walked around to stand behind me, hands playing on my bare neck and in my hair. I did my best to appear appalled by his touch, shying away from it and giving little whimpers.

"Why would I wanna let you go?" he ran a leather-clad finger across my lips and I shuddered. "We're just getting started."

Here, he headed toward the desk. I whipped my head around, as if fearing that he would sneak up on me if I didn't watch his every move. I'm sure that if I had more of a chest, it would be heaving. He cleared the desk with a theatrical swipe and sat down on the edge heavily, one leg dangling back and forth. Still watching me, he slowly began to unbuckle his belt, sliding it out of the belt loops one by one. My breath hitched in my throat and I put a hand to my mouth, shaking my head. More tears poured out of my eyes. He threw the belt aside and slowly unzipped his pinstriped pants.

What a strange time for me to think back to a conversation I'd had with a girl name Ada Emerson on the bus to a tennis game earlier that year. We'd been discussing what kind of underwear the Joker wore.

"I'll bet he has a pair of boxers with his name in glitter across the butt," Ada had mused.

I could see now that Ada was wrong. The Joker went commando. From where I sat, I could just see a little splash of black hair visible through the gaping zipper.

He looked up at me and leaned forward, motioning to me. I leaned away, shaking my head more fervently this time.

"No, please! Oh God, no! Anything but that! Please!"

"Shh," his ashen expression quieted my cries to a series of little sobs and sniffles. "You don't want your little friends to hear."

He waited for me to settle a bit before motioning to me again. Dejectedly and still crying, I crawled to him on my hands and knees before stopping just a few inches before his knees.

"Oh, come on, it won't bite," he grabbed my arms and pulled me closer.

My chin was nearly resting on the crotch of his pants now. I disguised my shock with a new bout of tears.

"Come on, come on," he groaned as he sat back.

The waist of his pants dipped lower and I was suddenly able to see even more of his erect member. I had never seen one in person, but from the best of my knowledge, his was formidable. I was like a dog who had been chasing cars and had finally caught one. I had no idea what to do. Gingerly, I peeled the cloth away from the appendage, my index finger gently grazing it in the process. His abdomen tensed at this tiny contact and he expelled his breath through his nose with a wheeze.

At that moment, I pondered how very, well, horny he must be. Women weren't exactly throwing themselves at maniacs trying to blow up the city. I took a deep breath and told myself that whatever I could give him would have to suffice. So I opened my little virgin mouth and slowly lowered it to encompass his length.

"Oh, that's it," his leg gave a twitch before he planted his feet firmly on the side of the desk. "That's it."

His voice was tight as I licked at the tip of his member. I little shudder ran through his body and he clapped his hand on the back of my head, forcing his ample how's-your-father farther into my throat. I gagged as he began to move his hips, as if dancing to an erotic rhythm that only he could hear. I gave a little retch, which was covered by the stream of profane language which began flowing out of his mouth. I was so horrified by it that I only caught some of it, preferring to let other snippets slip through my ears.

"Oh, that sweet little mouth of yours.... So good, so good.... Ohh, bite it. That's it.... That tongue.... Lap it up.... Meow like a kitty for me.... Oh, I'm gonna cut your little mouth to pieces.... Blood all over.... Cut your fingers off one by one.... Hear you scream...."

His comments became more colorful and more violent by degrees as I worked at his below-the-belt area. Then, without any warning, he pulled at a handful of my hair, effectively removing my mouth from his organ. A gossamer strand of saliva and who knows what else hung for a moment between the two before he abruptly stood up, nearly introducing his free-flowing Johnny to my right eye. He turned and threw the rest of the office supplies on the surface of the desk to the floor without any grace. He turned back to look at me, a fire in his eyes. Now, he slowed down, savoring the next few moments. He put his hands out to caress my hips. Remembering my role, I cringed away. The tears were drying in sticky streaks on my face. His purple fingers made their way up to the neck of my blouse, where they began to slowly undo the buttons. I gave little whimpers all the way, hoping my face was as attractive as it was terrified and disgusted. He held the blouse open, his eyes glittering as he appraised my bare torso. At length, he leaned close, his breath tickling my collarbone as he licked my chest. He knelt, his arms tracing around my back to unhitch the clasp of my bra. I gave a frantic little cry, trying to push his hands away as they reached for my bare breasts beneath the undergarment. His kisses were now pressing the boundary of the waist of my jeans.

"No! No! No more!"

Here, he tilted his head to look up at me. Little scarlet brush strokes riddled my torso. His red lips broke open to reveal yellow teeth and I feared what was coming next.

Before I knew it, my back was pressed to the wood of the teacher's desk. He was just climbing onto the desk, taking little steps with his knees until he was poised over my hips.

"Yes, yes," was his mantra. "This is very good."

I looked up at him with terrified eyes that he refused to meet. He was too busy ripping off one of the offensive gloves with his teeth. My chest broke open in song. I prayed for him to run his bare hand over my skin. Instead, he plunged it beneath my jeans and inside the place where no one had ever touched me before. I gave a little scream, careful not to be so loud as to alert anyone in the auditorium, and grabbed at his vein-rippled forearms.

"Oh? You like that?" his face was maniacal, crazy, as he hissed through clenched teeth.

"No! No!" I flung my head from side to side, tears mixing with my hair.

"What's that? You want me inside you?" he gave a high-pitched little cackle before doing away with my jeans and underwear for good and plunging himself hard into my reluctant space.

The pain was unspeakable. I cried out in earnest and real tears came to my eyes. My muscles down below spasmed and clenched around his length.

"Ohhh," he moaned, throwing back his greasy hair. "You... you naughty little thing."

He was out of breath. He was really enjoying himself, wasn't he? He gave a violent thrust and I pressed on his shoulders, beating my fists on his stony muscles, clenching my eyes shut.

"Stop it! Stop it! You're hurting me!"

"How big am I?" he panted. "Does it feel good? Tell me I'm huge!"

"No!" I gasped for air, the pain subsiding to a dull sting. "Please! No more! Get out!"

"Watch out! Things are about to get very white in here!" he cried.

A few more thrusts and he suddenly stopped, leaning forward and breathing heavily. A warm tingle spread throughout my nether regions and I heard the sound of something dripping on the floor. I brought one of my arms to cover my eyes and felt hot tears dribble across my temples, mixing with the sweat that dripped down his greasy, knotted hair and landed on my face. After a minute or so, he hopped down from the desk, tucked himself back in, and ran a hand through his hair. He approached the camera and bent to look into the lens.

"Hey there, Gotham," he breathed heavily in the lens. "Hope you enjoyed our... little show."

_[Chapter 2! I am still trying so hard not to be too Mary Sue here. Am I succeeding? I hope so. I feel like such a failure. Please give me suggestions! I almost named this chapter after a Prozzäk song/album called Hot Show, but I thought that that seemed a little too vulgar and I didn't know if anyone would get the reference. I also apologize for any discrepancies that there might be between the Dark Knight movie and my story. I realize that he wears suspenders, not a belt in the movie and that his shoes are brown, not purple in the movie (this comes up in the next chapter, I think). I explain this by saying that he made a different fashion choice that day.]_

_Next Chapter: More smexysmexy Joker. The cat gets let out of the bag so let's all stare at Donna 'cuz she's a ho. Sinister plots!_


	3. Watching Him Pee

_Chapter 3! I hope you enjoy! Some making out, inappropriate thoughts, etc. But not like chapter 2. You're welcome/ sorry._

**Chapter 3: The Aftermath (Watching Him Pee)**

He was gone before I could even get up from the desk. The camera, his jacket, everything. Then, truthful tears came. But what had I expected? That he'd stay behind? That we'd cuddle and laugh and enjoy the afterglow? No. He was a villain who had simply used my youthful body to shock the city. Used it and thrown it away like an empty tube of toothpaste or a soup can or... something like that.

Still crying, I slid down from the desk. I was suddenly very aware of the fact that I was half nude in a classroom. I felt as if two dozen invisible freshmen were watching me. I grabbed for my pants and underwear, hastily pulling them on, twisted and rumpled and filthy from the floor and being in contact with my skin now. I bounded out of the room and down the hall. I frantically began scheming as to what would be the best way to handle this. Should I run in screaming and crying or should I pretend as if nothing had happened and save the surprise for the news the next day? I rounded the corner and hurriedly ducked into the girls' bathroom. The large mirror beside the sinks revealed what a mess I was. My shirt still hung open, revealing artistic red marks down the center of my torso. My hands were shaking as I struggled to redo the buttons and to straighten the creases and wrinkles in the fabric of my shirt and pants. Mascara and dried tears streaked my morbid visage. My lips were a smudgy, muted red and my face was pale to the point of being celadon. How strange - my face was like an echo of his macabre clown makeup - pale face, black eyes, red lips. I nearly felt guilty, as if I was washing away a treasured souvenir, when I splashed a handful of water on my face. I whisked my hair up into a ponytail at the back of my head, trying to camouflage how ratty it was from being thrown around, touched. I tried again to button my blouse, but my hands were still shaking too strongly and the shiny bits of plastic slipped from my grasp.

"Damn," I kicked the base of the wall and slapped my hand against my forehead, screwing my face up as hot, frustrated tears pressed once more on the back of my eyes.

I turned and pressed my back against the icy mirror, feeling the chill creep through my thin blouse. I gave a wheezing sigh and slowly opened my eyes. That was when I noticed the pair of purple shoes visible just under the wall of the first bathroom stall. I froze, fingers grasping at the surface of the mirror. That was when I heard the thunderous splashing of a thick stream of urine hitting the toilet water. Still, I held my breath. Perhaps my eyes were just taking suggestions from my mind about what I wanted to see instead of what really was. It was only when a white face framed in oily green hair thrust itself past the open stall door that my heart grew wings and burst out of my chest to fly around the ceiling.

"Hey, I just wanna let you know that this was nothing personal," he spoke over the loud dribble. "That stuff back there, I mean."

I was tempted to walk over and to sneak one last peek at his groin, just to see it again. Realizing that my brain was spitting out smut again, I bit down hard on my tongue, tasting blood.

"You were just the first young girl I found," the splashing grew more quiet. He turned his head and gave a little jerk before there was a zipping noise and he stepped from behind the partition. "Or at least the first one that I could abscond with without causing a big stir. That wouldn't have been good."

He stood facing me for a moment. I noticed that his hands were bare - no gloves. An image of myself dropping to the floor and licking at the filthy, stained fingers flashed through my mind. This time, I bit the inside of my cheek.

He turned and crossed to the sink silently. He moved with an indefinable elegance, a swagger. He ran his hands under the water, throwing a small glance my way as he did.

"And let's be honest," he pumped foam soap onto his hands. It seemed so strange to see him doing something so mundane and ordinary. "I wasn't exactly opposed to getting ahold of that sweet little ass of yours."

He was suddenly upon me, one hand reaching behind to grasp my backside. I was flabbergasted with joy, unspeakable joy. A delightful tingle radiated from the place where he had touched me.

"You... gonna be okay?" he waved a wet hand in front of my face.

I broke out of my racy trance with a flinch. I felt so stupid. As a child, my father would always splash the excess water from his washed hands on my face whenever I was near. I had expected that now. It was a reflex. If that instinct was intact, then where were the sensible ones, the ones that told me to afraid of this man? The ones that told me to run away from him, to be appalled?

Before I could reason with my out-of-control id, I was once more attached to his mouth. I pressed my lips hard to his, snaking my arms behind his head. For a while, he didn't fight it. A slow, crazed laugh rose in his chest, muffled by my own mouth into something between a moan and a chuckle. It was only when I pressed my lower body to his that he took hold of my waist and threw me back against the mirror. My head collided with the hard surface while I faced an equally stony visage. His eyes were downturned, his fingers drumming on my bare flesh where my blouse had ridden up. Oh, how I loved the feel of his fingers when they weren't encompassed in gummy purple. I watched the indecision on his face. I wouldn't have been opposed to him throwing me to the floor and doing what he had done back in the classroom. I just didn't want him to leave....

Finally, he looked up with what I imaged were as close to "puppy dog eyes" as he could manage. Slowly, he raised his chin and this look morphed into a leer.

"Save some for later, kid," he removed his hands from my body and wagged a finger at me before dropping his voice and speaking to himself. "You, you could be useful."

He backed away from me, grabbing his jacket where it hung on the stall wall and replacing the leather gloves on his hands. He kicked the handicap stall open behind him before turning and disappearing from sight like it was a magic trick.

I turned back to face the mirror, the horror I had seen earlier replaced by mirth. He had promised me a "later." Whether he meant it or not, it still started a little glimmer in my chest. But there were more pressing matters to attend to.

I left the bathroom and headed for the auditorium. I stormed past two girls leaned over and chatting in hushed tones, doubtlessly about some boy or an imagined "drama." When I passed, they turned their raccoon eyes on me as if I had interrupted a UN peace conference. I gave them my best fake smile and a wave, secretly spitting on them and their imagined problems. If only they knew where I had been, what had been done to me. Something tells me that their little high school trifles would pale in comparison. I threw the door to the auditorium open with a clank, making the men in the sound booth jump. I hurried down the aisle and threw myself into row H, where Belle and I always sat. Our little freshman friend, Ben Christensen, was sitting in the row behind, leaning on the back of Belle's seat and carrying on an animated conversation via a sock on his hand.

"Where have you been?" Belle looked up and sat forward when I showed up.

"We did the cheerleader scene. You missed it," a sophomore named River Meyers let me know unhelpfully.

"Could you tell Mrs. Gay that I went home? I'm not feeling well," I bullshitted as I shoved my things into my tote bag in an attempt to flee. I pulled my character shoes off of my feet and went hunting for my street shoes.

"Yeah, you don't look so good," Ben observed.

Just what I wanted to hear.

"Bye, guys," I panted, shoving my feet into my shoes, crunching my toes unpleasantly.

"Bye, Donna, feel better," Belle wrinkled her brow with worry.

"Freel bretterrr!" Ben's sock puppet screeched, darting out to maul my lips in a cottony kiss. When he drew back, a little red smudge marked a miniature smile on the white fabric.

_[I fought with myself over keeping the name of the chapter "The Aftermath: Watching him Pee" or whether to change is to something slightly less ew like "The Aftermath: A Chance Encounter in the Ladies' Room." Vulgarity won out. I'm trying so very hard to keep the Joker in character. He needs to be meaner! Meaner! I'll try. He's not so very violent (because I'm not so good at writing violence/action scenes). He's more parlor trick magic now. I try to work in some bazookas and knives. Mmmmm... knives....]_

_Next Chapter: I just realized that I made a mistake in the "next chapter" section of Chapter 2. Chapter 3 is the one where the news go nuts and we get to gape at Donna 'cuz she's a ho. Oopsies!_


	4. In the News Tonight

_Not much to say. This sad excuse for a fic goes on. ;D Still rated M. I'm a perv, you're a perv, we're all pervs. Yay for perversity! _

**Chapter 4: In the News Tonight....**

News coverage of the fandango did not disappoint. I woke up, sat down in front of the TV, and was immediately assailed by a picture of a very familiar made-up face. The perfectly-coiffed news anchor narrated in a level-headed tone with just a tiny edge of disgust.

".... a horrifying discovery. We received a tape from the infamous Joker last night in which he was shown sexually abusing a young girl assumed to be in her late teens in a setting that appears to be a school classroom. No news yet on the identity of the victim or the location of the taping. Investigations are being made...."

The phone rang shrilly, breaking through the lazy morning quiet. The first of many that day, that week.

"Hello?"

A pause.

"Donna? Is that you?"

It was Hermés, calling from France.

"Hermés? Wow! How's France?"

"Fine. Beautiful. I just called to see if you were... y'know, okay?"

"Of course. Why wouldn't I be? Stop worrying about me while you're supposed to be off having fun exploring the Louvre and meeting sexy French boys to bring home to me!"

A lump lodged itself in my throat as I said this.

"No, it's just that I saw this strange thing on the news.... Did'ja see it? Looks like the Joker's at it again."

"Wow, you got news from Gotham all the way in France so quickly? Amazing. Now, how do you suppose they manage that?"

"I-I just wanted to know that you're okay. The part of the video that we saw here was kinda blurry, but it looked like it definitely could have been Gotham high."

"You don't think that _I_ was the girl in that video... do you?"

The laughter only sounded forced, so I stopped shortly.

"Well, I was worried," she sounded bashful. "It seems like the kind of trouble you'd get into while I was away in France."

I brushed my bangs out of my eyes and as I did so, I felt moisture on my cheek. Tears. They came in earnest now.

"Really, Hermés. The very idea!" I tried not to choke on the words. I struggled and failed to keep my voice high, lilting, taunting. "A million girls in Gotham and you think he'd pick me. That's very... very...."

"Donna? Donna? Are you okay? Speak to me!"

I covered my face with my hands, feeling sick, dirty, and yet relieved as I opened my mouth. I couldn't lie to my best friend. Her voice always had a way of extracting from me what I never wanted to admit. On the other end, there was some rustling, her mother's voice, and Hermés saying, "something's wrong with Donna."

"It was me," I sobbed down the phone. "It was me in that video. The Joker raped _me_!"

_And I liked it._

They were off. Reporters were at my door, I was getting phone calls from police officers, analysts of all kinds, family members from across the country with advice and condolences. I found myself in a colorless room at the police station , a TV in the corner of the room my only company.

"Word has just been received that the identity of the victim in the Joker's latest video has been confirmed. Seventeen-year-old Donna Hill is currently being questioned in the hopes that she will be able to shed some light on this mysterious figure in Gotham crime."

Two police men entered - one with a mustache, one with a shaved head. I switched off the TV. They were kindly and understanding for all of a minute. Asking me how I was, if I was feeling okay, how I was handling things. The questions didn't stop there, though. They only got harder. Any identifiable markings on his body? Any clues to where he might be at present? Where had the incident occurred? I was made to relive every painstaking detail of the night again. Then came the part that I dreaded.

"Are there any... DNA samples of his that you can give to us?" the mustached man refused to look me in the eyes. "Sperm? Saliva? Hair? Fingerprints? Anything?"

I slowly shook my head, trying not to think of how last night I had run my hands over every surface of my body he had touched. How I had licked every surface in my mouth, trying to detect any hint of his lingering saliva. How I had retrieved sticky remnants of his seed from my insides, rubbing it between my fingers, smelling it, tasting it.

"No," I said quickly as the two men bored through me with their eyes. "I've bathed since the incident. Washed the clothes, too."

The mustached officer gave a dejected little sigh and bid me a pleasant day. I was free to go, but not free at all. My name was on the news, people were rapping on the door wanting to know more, wanting to know if I was okay. I just curled up in my bed and imagined his face, how he had felt - his hands, his arms, his chest, his legs, his clothes, his lips, his tongue, his breath, his... his throbbing length.

But my secretly blissful lazing couldn't go on forever. I had play practice, which was as tortuous as it got. Girls and boys alike gathered around, a mix of wanting to console me, wanting to make sure that I was okay to perform, and plain curiosity.

"Which room was it in?" a little boy with a piggy nose prodded me.

I nearly snapped that it was right on his desk in homeroom, but instead smiled and turned to make my way over to the piano for warm-ups.

I stood at the center of the stage with the day-glow yellow script in my hands, readying to conduct the Rydell alma mater. Everyone in the chorus gaped at me with unsuppressed fascination and curiosity. Maybe they expected me to do a little press release Q and A here. Even when I looked over my shoulder at the pianist and the musical director, they were looking at me with fearful, pitying expressions. So many eyes on me at once. I looked at me feet. And then the pair of feet that was beside them, that pair dressed in shocking pink mules.

"I think this counts as a legitimate excuse," Mrs. Gay put a hand on my shoulder in an uncharacteristically gentle way. "Go home and get some rest."

I nodded mechanically and stepped down off the stage, painfully aware of the eyes following my every movement. Perhaps if they watched long enough, I'd turn into the Joker, the man that they were dually sickened and amused by.

I stumbled into the darkened house. Only my two shih-tzus greeted me. My mother was out of town for a while. I thanked God for this. She would probably be less mentally stable than me at the moment if she was here. She had enough phobias and neurotic tendencies to keep a horde of psychologists in Ferraris for life. We'd both be in rubber rooms by now if she had anything to say about it. I'd have to think of a tasteful way to present the incident to her when she returned.

I climbed to my room on the third floor. Upon arriving on the landing, I was suddenly enveloped in a chilly breeze. I turned to see that the window in my room was wide open, a brisk winter wind whipping the white curtains around. I rushed across the room and slammed the window shut, leaning on the latch to make sure that it was secure this time. It must have been windier than I thought.

"Did'ja miss me, beautiful?"

I could have melted right there. That voice that I'd been playing over and over in my head since he'd slipped away. I turned to see that figure, that face that had visited my pleasant dreams. I didn't care if he was a figment of my imagination. I full-on glomped him, the two of us falling to my bed. There was just something so erotic about seeing him in my pink, girly room decorated with floral prints and bows. I peppered his face with kisses, smoothing my body over his. My memories mixed with his distinct smell, his distinct taste. I was so wrapped up in these sensations that I gave a start and nearly fell off the bed when he delivered a stinging spank to my hind quarters. I won't pretend that it didn't make me hot as hell. I just wasn't expecting it. I sat a safe distance away, blushing and feeling very foolish, childish.

"I'll take that as a 'yes'," he sat up, shaking his head and smoothing his hair.

"Do... do you want something? Can I get you food? Water?"

I shot up from the bed, my legs going like the Energizer Bunny. I was about to go to my jewelry box to give him anything that he might be able to trade for money. His expression was amused and dead sexy. I looked from his face to his spread legs and realized what he wanted. What else could it be? I fell to my knees and buried my face in the crotch of his pants. But before I could get the zipper down, he caught my chin in one hand and tilted my face up to look at him.

"Much as I'd love you to blow me to kingdom come like I blew up that hospital last week," he put a balled fist to his mouth. "We've got more pressing matters to attend to."

Rejected. I sat back on the floor and tried not to feel too embarrassed. That was when he grabbed for my arms and pulled me to sit on his lap. I could have died of happiness. I settled in and shuddered with pleasure as he sprinkled a few gnawing pecks on my neck.

"Looks like our little video received some pretty critical reviews," he leaned back. "Got the old panic and mayhem flowing. Nothing like raping a pretty little girl to get people marching in the streets with pitchforks and torches."

He curled my bangs around his fingers. I let a little giggle escape.

"But now we need something new to freak them all out. We've done sex tapes. I'm thinking live action now."

"Live action?" I piped up.

"Yeah. Movies aren't as... shocking because it's easy to imagine that they're make believe. But if something happens right in front of their faces... they get it."

He placed his hand over my eyes before pushing back my bangs and giving a playful gnashing noise with his teeth.

"We need a big group of people, all crowded together. A way to get their attention like that," here, he snapped and a joker playing card magically appeared in his fingers. He gave it another turn and it transmuted into a beautiful white rose. "Any suggestions, my little lolita?" he offered the rose to me, his voice treading into the domain of his gravelly seduction tone.

"Well... one, I guess."

_Grrrrrr!!! So frustrating! I'm trying to be unique and shun all Mary Sue tendencies, but it's not working! The Joker is still a big fat softie. I'm gonna have to do some serious beheading in the coming chapters. I've started on chapter 5 and so far it's just an in-depth look at stage makeup. _

_A big, gigantic thanks to everyone who has read this and to those who have reviewed. I am shocked that anyone read, let alone liked it and took the time to review! It gave me a big case of the warm fuzzies, which didn't help me bitch-ify the Joker at all. I was so worried after someone commented elsewhere that stories like this were a dime a dozen. But I just read a review from _**sendcassie **_saying that chapter 3 was very creative. That made me feel so much better! Thank you so much! I'm not sure that I agree, but I'm trying very hard to be! And also... thank you so much! Again!!! Perhaps I should look on the bright side. My story doesn't suck - I'm just catering to the current financial crisis. A dime for a dozen of these seems like a pretty nice deal, I suppose. Of course, I went prom dress shopping yesterday, so everything seems like a good deal comparatively. _

_The Next Chapter: It just seems rambling and drawn out right now. I'm kind of confused as to where I want this story to go. I think maybe I'll shove Donna off of a building. Then she could go to the hospital and I'd have an excuse to put the Joker in doctor attire. (drooooool) But for now I'm just wandering around in the forest and running into plot trees. For chapter 5, I'm scheming around the idea of the Joker popping out of a giant ice cream cone. I'm not kidding._


	5. Theatricks

_This travesty chugs on. My apologies. This chapter is very very long and drawn-out, but I swear that it gets good when the Joker shows up at the end. There are guns and knives!_

**Chapter 5: At the Makeup Table (Theatricks)**

I pushed past boys in leather jackets, their hair oiled back and their faces oompa-loompa orange. I hid the palette of face paints in my hands. They wouldn't need them, surely. Past girls in poodle skirts, the Pink Ladies in their Pepto Bismol jackets, down the hall to the girls' dressing room. My high ponytail swung from side to side and my green and brown cheerleader skirt clung to my staticky pantyhose and tripped up my legs. Room 224. I pushed open the door. The room was a mess of plastic dry cleaning bags, makeup carrying cases, bobby pins, choking hair spray, and costumes. He nearly blended in with all of the mayhem where he sat on the radiator on the far side of the room. He turned slowly to look at me as I entered and I was again struck by the appearance of his face without the clown makeup. There was something that I loved about seeing his bare face, seeing the naked scars and the disfigured flesh. A permanent grin. And yet it was also less appealing in some way, less bright, less showy. I set the makeup on the radiator, clearing the crumpled brown paper towels covered in white, red and black makeup away.

"So this is special stage makeup?" he turned the palette over in his hands. "Gonna make my face _pretty_ up on stage?"

"Uh-huh," I lied.

I didn't really know the difference between what he usually wore and this stuff, if there was one. It was a purely selfish venture. I just wanted an excuse to touch his face as much as possible. I dragged a triangular sponge through the white makeup and set to smoothing it across his face, the fingers of one hand supporting his chin. He obediently folded his hands in his lap and closed his eyes, though his tongue was continually darting out to smooth over the nude scars on his lips. I couldn't help but smile. I brushed white into the deep creases of his forehead, spread the entire surface of his face white before darkening his eye sockets with black. I made them more pronounced than usual, as with the red lips. I made the lines sharper, more angular, more upturned at the ends. It would look very frightening onstage, even to those sitting in the back rows.

"All done," I closed the case with a snap.

He appraised my work in the mirror, turning this way and that, running his tongue over the red stripe on his face. At length, he seemed to approve and dropped the mirror. I busied myself with disposing of the evidence.

"So how come your makeup doesn't look like this?" he indicated his own face. "Don't you have to wear special stage makeup, too?"

"For our makeup, we're supposed to wear foundation that's a few shades darker than our skin and our eye shadow and eye makeup have to define the eye, but not make it too dark."

I hid the last of the sponges and used paper towels in the bottom of the trash before straightening and crossing to stand before him. He put his hands on the sides of my face and turned it this way and that, examining my makeup. He ran a finger along my false eyelashes and then along my reddened lower lip.

"Pale makeup and dark eyes would make us look... morbid," I nearly whispered.

He stepped back, throwing his arms wide.

"That's what I'm hoping for!" he cried.

That was the essence of what his presence did to me - made me do the exact opposite of what was expected, what was good. I had learned to effectively suppress that little voice of reason that continually cried "Bad, Donna, bad!" The one that kept me inside my comfort zone, far from the edges. The one that sounded like Hermés. Perversity was what it was. Oh... yes! I had written a research paper all about this last year for honors English titled Edgar Alan Poe and the Perversity of Human Nature. But while Poe's characters went around gouging out the eyes of pet cats and digging up living corpses to wrench out their teeth, I was just putting myself in danger. No biggie. Of course, there was a word for that, too: masochism. I turned it over in my mind a few times as he put his arm around my shoulders and steered me out of the room. I liked it.

"So, we gonna scare the shit out of people tonight?" he asked as we traipsed down the hall.

"Mm-hm!" I replied cheerfully, wrapping my arms around his midsection.

He gave a little cackle. A comparatively quiet one, but one still loud enough to alert a stage mom that was hiding around the corner. She thrust her head around the wall and I froze. This would certainly not look good, me walking down the hallway with my arms wrapped around the Joker. But when I looked to see what he was planning to do to her, he was gone. I looked back at the stage mom and let the arm that had been behind his back fall.

"You're late. You're supposed to be in the music suite warming up," she gave me an evil glare.

"Oh, I'm sorry," I put on my nicest voice, which seemed fake to me after all of the un-nice things I'd been doing lately. "I was just, uh, doing a few deep breathing exercises. Like my counselor told me."

At this, her brow smoothed and she nodded understandingly. I had gotten away with so much in the past few weeks. Everyone was always on constant emotional and mental distress watch for me. The first thing Hermés did when she came back from France was refer me to her shrink. I hadn't actually gone to any psychologists, though. There were certainly issues that needed addressing, but nothing that could be fixed.

I slipped into the music suite just in time for back rubs and inserted myself in the front row between River and a freshman boy named Jules Jacobi. Lips trills, scales, the first few bars of the alma mater, and it was show time. Mrs. Gay stepped to the front of the room and read an excerpt from _The Little Prince,_ she asked for a minute of silence for good luck, and then we all filed onstage to get into our places for the class reunion scene. I stood in the front row between River and a girl named Brandy Charlatan with the rest of the cheerleaders.

I don't think that I had ever had a more exciting opening night. A happy nervousness had taken up residence in my body. There was going to be a surprise, I just didn't know when or where. Like every year when Mrs. Gay always dressed up at least once and inserted herself in the scene as an extra. She was a bartender in _Beauty and the Beast_, a fellow passenger on the S.S. America in _Anything Goes_. It was always exciting to see where she'd turn up each time. But little did everyone know that we were going to have a second party crasher. Maybe he'd do it during "Greased Lightning" or even "Summer Nights." It would be hilarious to see poor little Lila Cadee, the girl playing Sandy, freak out when she turned around to see the Joker looking up her poodle skirt when she was standing on the lunch table.

But act one went off without any interruptions. The place was packed, though. Every single seat was filled. When I brought this fact up to Hermés, she replied that it was because of all the recent publicity concerning the school. Whether they came to show that they still supported the school despite some security issues or whether they came to gape at the Joker's latest chew toy, I don't know.

We sang the alma mater, we did the cheerleader scene. In between appearances onstage, I sat in the music suite with my eyes glued to the TV screen, watching the live feed of the stage. I ignored offers of cherry Twizzlers and invitations to join SET and Drug Dealer card games. I just sat and stared at the screen. I knew it would be big when he arrived and that everyone would know it, but I didn't want to chance missing his "special appearance."

Finally, strains of "We Go Together" piped through the speakers in the corner and the principals lined up onstage before galloping down the aisles, Danny giving Rizzo a piggy-back ride, Frenchy and Doody kicking their legs, Sonny bringing up the rear. The ensemble in the music suite applauded and went shoving and stumbling out of the room to get into costume for act two.

When I entered the dressing room, girls were already changing, pulling bulky 1950s prom dresses in garish shades over their immaculately sprayed and gelled hair. I pulled my cheerleader sweater over my head and reached behind my back to unzip my skirt. That was when I threw a glance out the window. Nothing but glossy black night. I narrowed my eyes, getting a funny feeling in the pit of my stomach.

"Norah," I called to a redheaded freshman who was changing by the windows. Her ample chest jiggled dangerously in her strapless bra like Jell-O with a mind of its own, threatening to give the possible unseen visitor outside a show. "Close the blinds, would you?"

"But there's a brick wall that shields us from the street. And the boys aren't going to be running around outside the school in their underwear _tonight_," she reasoned.

"Just... do it," I threw another look out the shining window, only seeing my own reflection.

I may not have minded being peeped at by a homicidal maniac, but something told me that the others might. Seeing my distressed look as I stared at the window, Norah finally motioned to her friend, Sherri. She rolled her eyes minimally as they began lowering the blinds. This wasn't meant for me to see, but I caught it. "She's nuts," is what she was saying. "That Joker attack really screwed her up. Now she's thinking she sees him everywhere." Whatever they had to think to feel safe. I finished redressing in my lilac dress with the puff sleeves and big, bedazzled bow on my hip. I was one of the last ones in the room by the time I had zipped it up. Belle sat herself on a desk to wait for me.

"Go on ahead," I put my foot up on the corner of a desk and began re-buckling my character shoes. "I'll be right there."

Belle gave me an unnerving look.

"I'll be fine," I reassured her, as I'd had to do so many times lately.

I listened for the door to shut before I tripped over to the window, character shoes still unbuckled. I blew hot breath on the glass, clouding the glossy surface with white film. I dragged my finger through it as quickly as I could, my progress impeded by the fact that I had to write backwards. Finally, I sat back, admiring "Break a Leg" etched in the fog. I gave a little wave and blew a kiss just in case he was out there. Then I ran out the door and back to the music suite, the stage mom from before staring after me.

Mrs. Gay called for another moment of silence, the feed on the TV screen showed the lights flickering in the auditorium, and we launched into act two.

"Good luck, Hermés!" I whispered as she disappeared into the throng of people heading backstage.

You would have thought I had slapped her.

"You know it's bad luck to say 'good luck'," she snapped.

Oopsie. I couldn't help but smile. I suppose what you call bad luck all depends on your point of view.

I followed a smaller group of people around to the back doors of the auditorium and waited for the scene to start. Our job was to run in as if we were late and do the choreographed dance in the aisles. When I joined the group, two girls named Marie and Holly were freak dancing in the foyer. Way to stay in character. I turned my attention to the stage before I could catch an eyeful that I didn't need burned into my corneas. Time was running down. It would be happening soon. I watched as the Pink Ladies and the Burger Palace Boys skittered out from the wings. Marty stuffed her bra, Frenchy poofed everyone's big hair, boys popped collars and shone shoes. I searched the figures onstage - no visitors, no red and white faces.

"Donna!" Alexa Kater's round little face looked up at me.

She held out her hand to me, expecting me to take it. Everyone else in the line had already linked up and they were staring at me. What? I hadn't said "good luck" again. I quickly grabbed Alexa's hand, spitting mental acid at them all. The Joker rapes you _one time_ and they expect you to go all nuts or something.

"You okay?" Alexa whispered to me as our cue neared.

"Fine," I plastered my best stage smile on and made my eyes as big as they would go before I got that whole crazed maniac look that was generally frowned upon when you were dancing in close proximity to audience members. "We're going to the high school hop! Isn't that exciting?"

She gave a little exaggerated laugh before she was suddenly yanked through the door and down the aisle, me close behind. I hadn't anticipated how difficult dancing would be with a portly couple standing six inches away staring at me. The last chord of the song rang out and everyone fell to the floor on the stage and in the aisles as the finale to the song. I tried my best not to flash anyone or squish my helmet hair as I fell. Mr. and Mrs. Portly continued staring at me.

"Do you think that's her?" Mrs. Portly seemed to think that I couldn't hear or see as she pointed at me on the floor.

"Who?"

"Her," another jab of the finger with little in the way of courtesy. "Do you think that's the young lady who was in that video that was on the news? It's one of them here."

I lay my arm across my eyes. Why wouldn't they go to "Raining on Prom Night" already? The boys on the other side of the aisle were beginning to stare at me as well, pointing and snickering and doubtlessly making innuendos beyond their years.

"Her hair seemed redder on the television," Mr. Portly leaned across his wife to stare down his bulbous nose at me.

"Maybe you're right," Mrs. Portly sniffed and rolled around again to face forward. "She looks a bit young, anyway."

That was just an effect of the fluffy dress. It made me look like I was five years old. I'm sure that they would have recognized me had I been wearing the slinky red sequined number that Norah was in.

At long last, the lights and set were rearranged for the "Raining on Prom Night" number in Sandy's room. I stood and walked up the aisle beside Alexa, hoping that Mr. and Mrs. Portly weren't checking out my butt to compare it with the tape. The camera adds ten pounds, but twenty-six layers of taffeta adds twice that.

I stood offstage and only watched halfheartedly to see if he would pop out of the hollowed-out old-fashioned radio. He didn't. It was just itty-bitty little Beatrix Aubert. I pondered whether he'd fit inside the wooden frame as Ben (sans sock puppet) edged up beside me and did a lovely interpretative dance to Sandy and the radio girl's song.

The lights came up and the frozen ensemble sprang to life and began chattering, signaling the start of the hand jive dance contest. In other words, I stood in the back and pretended to talk with some other sad girls like me because all of the boys who could dance were taken. Numerous plot twists and partner changes later, Fairbanks Jamison hobbled to center stage, flubbed his lines as Vince Fontaine a few times, and launched into the musical number. A bit too much marijuana in the parking lot before opening night, I would be willing to bet. Hopefully everyone would forget as soon as Perry Averill flipped Sandra Treece and showed off her underwear. Or maybe Ben would drop Hannah McGarret again. Only if we were lucky.

And indeed we were, though not in that sense. The scene went off without a hitch, even when I had to run down the aisle and pay another visit to Mr. and Mrs. Portly. This time, to show them how well I could hand jive. Now they just smiled at me and I tried not to think about how they might be picturing my pixilated ass.

Damn. Where was he? The high school hop scene was the big number of the second act. Surely he'd make an appearance in a scene where everyone was onstage. He must have been saving up for the grand finale, then. I didn't think that I could wait that long. Perhaps we could we just skip "All Shook Up?" I hated that song. Or maybe we could just skip the whole scene in Jan's rec room. No one understood what was going on, anyway, since we weren't allowed to say "pregnant" or "period." Instead, we had to use vague phrases like "in trouble" and "your friend."

I made my way lazily down the hall to the music suite, dragging my shoes distractedly as I went.

"Donna!" my name was called as loud as the caller dared. I look up to see River. She was motioning to me frantically as Belle unzipped the back of her dress in the middle of the hallway.

"Beauty School Drop-Out," Belle mouthed to me as she and River disappeared into the dressing room.

Shit. I'd forgotten all about my costume change for "Beauty School Drop-Out." My mind was just a little bit preoccupied. I should have probably been paying better attention to what was going on now as opposed to what was going to happen very soon. I clattered down the hall, trying not to flash any freshman boys nosing around the door as I unzipped my dress. A quick change into a ratty silver smock and a headdress made of pink foam rollers clued to a cloche hat. I was tucking the tip of my ponytail under the cap when River gave a cry.

"Look at this!"

She had been using the window as a mirror to fix her makeup in. I now turned to see that she was bent over the radiator staring at the pane where I had left my message.

"What is it?" I tried to sound innocent and curious, but just ended up sounding panicked.

River motioned to the window. Belle and I gathered around to see. My heart nearly pounded through my rib cage when I saw the red stripe across the window where my message had been. A kiss.

"What do you think it is?" River gave a giggle.

"I guess one of the girls thinks she's being funny," Belle said through clenched teeth and turned to head for the door.

"It almost looks like..." River began to say before she threw a horrified look at me and slapped her hands over her mouth in a less-than-subtle manner.

"Guys, c'mon!" Alexandria Becket nearly took Belle out with the door as she flung it open to give us this warning. "We gotta go!"

Belle dashed out of the room after her, but River still stayed staring at the mark on the window.

"Come on, River," I pulled on her smock.

"How strange," she said in a way unbefitting of her usual ditzy demeanor. The face reflected in the window was a serious one. She reached out to touch the mark, her fingers contacting only clean glass. "The mark's on the outside."

I could feel my face grow pale under the thick layer of mocha makeup.

"C'mon, River," my yank on her arm was less a suggestion and more an order.

All of the other backup singers were already backstage when River and I crashed in. The dance captain, Eva Kaden, scowled at me as I slid into place beside her.

"Don't forget the arms on the step-touches," was all she said before she turned around to face the scene onstage.

Tara Shaye, the girl who played Frenchy and who was by far the most theatrical in the troupe, was throwing herself around the stage.

"Oh, I wish I had one of those guardian angel things, like in a Denny Reynolds movie!" she lamented. Was it Denny or Debbie? I hoped no one in the audience caught it. "Someone to always tell you the right thing to do. Wouldn't that be neat?"

Now came the sole redeeming feature of the scene. I peered around Eva to see the doorway of the Burger Palace. I was so proud of River's daddy and the rest of the stage crew and set builders. Earlier in the year, we had gone as a group to see the production of _Grease_ on Broadway and in the "Beauty School Drop-Out" scene, the teen angel had popped out of the giant ice cream cone sign over the door to the Burger Palace, which then descended to the floor so that he could dance with Frenchy and then rose back up to hide him again when the scene was over. The stage dads had replicated this little marvel on our very own stage. Perhaps not to that caliber, but it was still an impressive feat for a high school production. Beside the Burger Palace door, there was a giant aluminum and wooden ice cream cone fitted with well-camouflaged hinges. It ran up and down a little metal track that ran parallel to the door.

All of the girls backstage watched anxiously for the maiden performance voyage of the lift system as the pianist ran her fingers up and down the keys in a haunting introduction. Even Frenchy seemed to be throwing glances it's way, even though she was supposed to be surprised at the teen angel's appearance... which should have come already. The pianist repeated the introduction once more. Dan was taking his dear, sweet time. He was supposed to throw the door open and start singing... now. At last, the voice began singing, though the ice cream cone stayed firmly shut. Maybe he was stuck, like when U2 got trapped in that giant lemon. It may have just been the effect of the sound echoing inside, but his voice sounded... different. It seemed rougher, with stronger T's and consonants, giving the cheerful, chastising, caring words an almost angry, laughing edge.

My heart beat quickened and my hands began to shake. I didn't know why. Maybe my body recognized the voice before I did.

It came to our entrance. Eva gave us all a shrug before leading us all onto the stage. As they say, the show must go on. No matter who gets stuck in a giant ice cream cone. Step-touch, step-touch, step-touch. I put a big smile on my face and sang the dull alto line, a repeating ascending scale of "oohs." I kept throwing glances at the cone as it descended to the floor. Maybe if Dan could get it open now, it would seem like we knew what we were doing. The ice cream cone reached the floor, we all threw our hands above our head as we arrived at our assigned places in a line across the stage, the music stopped, and still the door to the ice cream cone stayed shut. Despite ourselves, we all stared at it. Tara was nearly on her knees in front of it, as if praying for it to open.

Bang. A gunshot and splintered wood. Damn, they worked so hard on that ice cream cone. Oh, right, I was supposed to be frightened out of my wits. I should just follow River's example. She was standing the closest to the Burger Palace doorway; her bloodcurdling scream rose above all of the other cries and gasps in the room. She jumped away as if scalded and latched on to Belle. Next to me, Lila Cadee backed away and tripped over the stairs. The rest of us stayed frozen in our places. Our arms dropped to our sides or slapped over our mouths. The audience was chattering fiercely as the figure clad in purple and green stepped from the wreckage of the Burger Palace. He shook a few bits of shrapnel from his jacket and smoothed sawdust away with his gloved hands - a large, menacing gun in one. He stepped to the center of the stage and threw his arms wide. He did have a flair for the theatrical.

"Ladies and gentlemen, aren't these kids great?"

The mothers of the leads in the front row shied away from him as he walked out onto the platform in front of the stage. Scanning the room, he turned and slumped back to pass along the line of backup singers. River began screaming and squealing like an animal with its foot caught in a trap as he drew closer. His tongue darted out as he closed in on her, extending his gun and putting the tip just under her chin, tilting her face up to catch the stage lights. Black stripes ran from her crazed eyes to her chin.

"No! No! No!" she screamed.

I had a hunch that there wasn't a little voice in her head saying, "Yes! Yes! Yes!"

Satisfied with her terror, he withdrew the gun and turned instead to Belle, who stared at him with a stony face as River clung to her and screamed in her ear. Slowly, he leaned his gun against the stairs and went searching for something in the breast pocket of his jacket, never breaking Belle's gaze. Perhaps fed up with her obnoxious moaning, he shoved River aside. It seemed gentle enough, but she acted as if she'd been hit in the head with a shovel and fell to the ground in the fetal position, crying amidst the splinters. When I looked back at Belle, the Joker had one of her wrists in his grip and was struggling to keep her still. A shiny silver blade glittered against her cheek in the harsh stage lights.

"There's that beautiful face," he rasped, taking her face in both of his hands.

I felt like something white hot had just been stabbed through my chest. Jealousy seeped from the wound. He had called her beautiful. I watched as his tongue flicked not an inch from her nose and let the sadness of the truth wash over me. I had to remind myself for the millionth time that day that he was a criminal, a homicidal maniac, and that I couldn't expect any sort of consistencies from him, including fidelity. He wasn't about to offer me his high school ring and say, "let's be steadies."

"Shh-shhh," he pressed the knife closer to Belle's flesh and I watched her eyes widen. A tiny dribble of blood escaped down her cheek. River burst into a new bout of tears. "Don't you remember me, darling?"

My arms tensed and my hands balled into fists as he opened his mouth and his tongue flicked out to lick the streak of blood off the blade. Now now, it wouldn't do to have a Jerry Springer moment in the middle of his big scene.

"Stop it!" Eva cried in a whiny, yet gruff tone. Her face was pale as chalk, even with her dark makeup.

He barely threw a glance over his shoulder before taking Belle's hand and turning to face the audience.

"Ladies and gentlemen, my lovely co-star," here he ripped the ridiculous curler cap off her head and gave a deep bow, pulling her along as well. "Miss Donna Hill."

Everyone fell silent. The girls exchanged panicked glances before staring at me expectantly. A chatter went up from the crowd. I saw Belle's mother in the third row clutching at her chest, eyes wide.

"That's not Donna," Edie Carrol whispered beside me.

"That's not Donna," Flora Gilles agreed a bit louder.

Noticing the strange unrest, the Joker straightened and ran his dark eyes over the crowd.

"What?" he smacked his lips.

The chatter continued. He didn't like that. Not one bit. In a flash,the gun was once more in his hand.

"What?" his voice filled the entire room, monstrous, inhuman, rending. A little tingle ran down my spine.

Silence.

"That's. Not. Donna," Eva was the one to finally speak up, her grating voice making my ears sting.

His head dropped, his eyes settling on Belle where she sat at his feet. Her brave face was gone; tears ran down her cheeks, mixing with blood. He tilted her head back, her curly black hair falling over her shoulders. To be fair, we all did look very similar in our stage makeup, especially when our hair was covered with the tacky hat and we were dressed in matching costumes. He gave a barely audible, wheezing sigh before his eyes lolled around in their dark sockets to fix on Eva. He turned, once more trading the gun for his knife. The light reflecting off the shiny metal blinded me as his heavy footsteps advanced on Eva. She hopped up one tread on the stairs. I thought that she was trying to evade him until I felt a firm push on my back and went flying forward, bashing my nose into his iron chest.

"That one's Donna," Eva added from a safe distance. A little bit of pride and satisfaction with herself made their way past her fearful expression. "That one," she'd called me.

I didn't much like how close he was holding his knife to my face. A little unnerving. Past his shoulder, I could see Belle pressing her smock to her bleeding cheek. I flinched when he slid the knife along my hairline, slipping my head free of the stuffy cap.

"Ah, there's my baby." I could see every one of his discolored teeth as he smiled down at me. Every muscle in my body tensed. Slowly, his face fell. He looked almost sad, disappointed. A perfect theatrical mask. "You look nervous," the leather of his glove caught on my hair as he dragged it across my ponytail. "I-Is it the scars?"

I let my eyes run across them. The stage lights cast harsh highlights and shadows on his face, making his expression even more garish and frightening. I was a better makeup artist than I thought.

"I know, I know. You were probably too blinded by my sexual prowess last time to see clearly," he cackled in my face, turning his chin this way and that so that I could get a good look at the scars that I already knew well.

I hadn't noticed that he was holding onto my wrists until he let go. My knees gave out and I crashed to the floor, hitting my tailbone on the lowest stair. Gritting my teeth, I tried to scurry away on the heels of my hands, but he caught the scuffed toe of my character shoe beneath his shining purple one like he was stomping out a cigarette. Satisfied that I was going nowhere, he stepped over my legs and seated himself heavily on the steps beside me.

"You know," he swung the knife's tip back and forth in a measured fashion like a pendulum. I followed it with my eyes, entranced. "I could give you scars just like these." He gestured to his own face with the tip of the knife.

I could feel my eyes going wide with terror. He wouldn't, would he? I was filled with grief and conflict as he leaned closer and closer, knife in hand. By the time I was going cross-eyed from trying to keep my eyes on the blade, it was all down to reflexes. I brought my arms up to cover my face and my eyes squinted closed in a mixture of fear and pain. I was suddenly in agony. My arm was on fire.

"Donna!" I could hear River screaming.

I turned to see her and Flora looked at me from where they were tending to Belle. My eyes sloshed around, resting for a moment on the dark clown's face, and then on my arm. I saw blood, red blood. Lots of it. All over the smock and the knife and the stairs - black and white checkers smeared with red. My eyes roved back to his face. The harsh smell of salty iron was making me feel woozy. I heard another wail and this time it wasn't River. It was the scream of approaching police cars. I was suddenly on my feet again, though I couldn't quite tell if my feet were on the floor. One of his hands was tight around my wrist while the other held my body tight to his.

"How 'bout a goodbye kiss?" his tongue ran over his red lips... lips red like blood. A wave of nausea hit me like a truck.

It was less my acting and more my need to keep from vomiting on stage that made me flinch away from him. He struggled with me for a moment, though he probably could have easily overcome me. Everything had taken on a warped appearance. When my eyes could focus again, I saw a gun in his hand; it was pointed at an old woman in a wheelchair off stage right. When he spoke again, his voice was again monstrous. I could barely pick out the words from the growling tone.

"Kiss me, Donna, or I'll kill," little flecks of spit hit my face as he shook me.

Well, I certainly didn't want that. With what little free will I had left, I reached out like a baby in her crib wanting to be picked up. He made no effort to move closer, only jutted out his chin, licked his lips, and blinked expectantly. I grabbed at his face, the white makeup greasy under my fingers, and latched onto his mouth. He gave a little groan deep in his throat and pulled my body closer to his, his biceps like bands of steel.

Sounds were everywhere, mixing and mingling. I felt like I was underwater, incoherent sounds rushing into my ears like chlorinated water. People in the audience gasped, screamed, cried for someone to help, to call the police, to do something.

"What the Hell is she doing?" someone cried.

"Donna!" I heard Mrs. Gay's voice, mingling with those of some stage moms and crew members that I hadn't noticed hiding backstage.

"He's a monster! An evil monster!" River's howls persisted.

Then the doors at the back of the auditorium crashed open. Men in black suits marked with the letters GPD in white flooded in, brandishing guns and screaming for the villain to put his hands up and to comply.

"Guess this is goodbye," the Joker shrugged, looking rather put-out by the interruption.

He let go of my arms and everything seemed to happen in slow motion. I slid from his hands like a slippery piece of satin, settling in a puddle on the floor, hitting my head on the hardwood apron. Footsteps rang through my head as a stampede of police officers stormed the stage. In my last moments of consciousness, I saw the Joker facing upstage, away from the approaching foes. He took up his gun and effortlessly fired a chorus of ringing shots into the stage right wing. In my bleary state, I couldn't fathom what on earth he was doing. That is, until I heard the noise of many sturdy ropes snapping and the many layers of black and royal blue velvet curtains came crashing down to blanket the stage like rich frosting. Audience members stood to flee, screaming and carrying on. Police men barked orders to one another, flailing pulses beneath the tangled mass of fabrics. When they finally knew which way was up, the Joker was gone, echoes of his manic laughter ringing down the halls.

I continued to bleed on the apron, watching the lights overhead meld together until a soothing white glow was all I could see.

_{I had a very difficult time trying to hear the Joker singing in my head. He doesn't seem like the type to be a good singer, but I've used a little poetic license there. I found some videos of Heath Ledger singing in 10 Things I Hate About You, but those didn't help. Then I found this amazing Joker/Rachel video on Youtube set to a version of "The Phantom of the Opera" performed by Nightwish. The male singer's voice fit the Joker so well. It was just screamy enough, yet still really good and manly and deep. (drooooool) The difficult part was imagining that voice singing "Beauty School Drop Out." _

_I'm sorry this chapter was so drawn-out. It kind of like when I went to see Dark Knight - every time the Joker wasn't onscreen, I was going nuts waiting for him to come back. I was trying to explore the theatrics of how the Joker works. I'm sure that you already guessed that I am currently a member of an acting troupe that is putting on Grease. As they say, write what you know. Subtract the Joker and this is basically a normal night for the acting troupe. Our director does sneak into the ensemble (sometimes she even makes up her own lines) and on the closing night of the show, all the boys in the company run around outside the school in their underwear singing "Bumblebee Tuna." No lie. I couldn't make this up if I tried. Just be sure not to tell anyone about our secret magical ice cream cone.}_

_Thank you to everyone for reading this far! I'm completely dumfounded whenever I see the little number of people who have read. And a very big thank you to _**Jokerfest.**_ Your review was sooo very helpful. Your suggestions were great. Thank you everyone soooo much!_


	6. A Strange Disease

_This is a very sappy chapter. My apologies._

**Chapter 6: A Strange Disease**

I saw nothing but white when I lost consciousness and saw nothing but white again when I regained it. I wondered for a moment if this was heaven. Certainly not! I wasn't going to heaven after all the stuff I'd done and said and thought! It wasn't exactly in the ten commandments: "thou shalt not fall in love with men bent on plunging yon city into chaos," but I had to be breaking some sort of moral law.

My eyes adjusted to the bright light that was pelting down on me from the fixtures above and I was able to make out the furnishings of my hospital room - important-looking monitors, white sheets, pastel colored chairs, a tray filled with packaged foods in white and silver containers. Everything was so... colorless. Even my hands looked pale and sickly where they lay on the bedspread. My red nail polish was chipped, my hands were covered in a few bruises and needle marks that looked like someone had been chewing on my hands while I slept, and my upper arm was heavy with white gauze. I didn't even want to know what my face looked like.

Slowly, I lifted my heavily bandaged left arm, letting the stinging sensation recall me to the earlier events - or perhaps it was even yesterday's events by now. Had I been asleep for long? How disorienting. I remembered a few snippets of being examined by a group of the policemen, one of them a familiar face with a mustache. I remembered ambulance lights, a nice man with a shaved head holding my hand while the vehicle maneuvered through crazy Gotham traffic. I may have once adoringly called him "the Joker." Hopefully he had attributed it to me being delirious. I was just thankful that I hadn't been awake to see them stitch up my arm. I was horrible with needles. Why were knives so damn sexy to me, then?

As if punishing me for this thought, my arm gave a throb and I looked around the room for something to distract me from the pain. I figured breaking the TV remote would be good for about five minutes of entertainment; so many buttons! Technology really wasn't my forte. It took me more than five minutes to figure out which button was the "on" switch and by then, I was ready for a nap. The message scrolling across the news screen was the only thing that kept me awake: "Joker Attack - Gotham High Targeted Again."

"That's my school!" I cried to no one in particular. I felt quite stupid afterwards.

The image on the screen was of the familiar cop with the mustache who had questioned me about the Joker. A label in the lower left hand corner of the screen identified him as Commissioner Gordon. On closer inspection, I saw that he was standing outside of Gotham High, though it was hardly visible beyond the forest of cop cars. His mustache bobbed as he talked; I hastily turned the volume up as far as it would go.

"...gun shots were fired. Two students have been taken to the emergency room at Gotham General with knife wounds. Neither one seemed to be in serious condition, but we aren't taking any chances with this man. Right now, the Gotham Police Department is doing everything in its power to prevent any more attacks from occurring. I will definitely be taking a closer look at the security of this establishment and other schools in the Gotham area and making a number of changes to ensure the safety of students. Yes."

Here, a microphone jutted further into the picture, nearly brushing his mustache, and a hurried female voice spoke.

"Commissioner, is it true that tonight the Joker targeted the same victim from the recent video that he distributed to Gotham news stations?"

Commissioner Gordon gave a sigh and adjusted his glasses.

"It would appear so. Miss Hill will again be questioned in the hopes of finding the cause of these attacks. For the time being, our main concern is getting her adequate mental and physical medical attention and ensuring that another attack does not occur. As we speak, a team of security officers has surrounded Gotham General to guard against any...."

As he babbled on, the door opened and a figure in a white lab coat entered. My eyes didn't leave the screen to look at the doctor. I thought of feigning sleep, but decided against it at the last moment. Noises of the man tinkering around out of my line of vision mixed with Gordon's prolix replies. "Security precautions.... Investigations are.... Appalled by this...."

"So, how's the arm healing?" an almost comically deep voice asked me.

"Oh, it's fine..." I threw a look at my bandaged arm, flexing the fingers a few times as if to demonstrate.

I was just about to look back at the TV screen when my face was suddenly in an vice-like grip, training my eyes on a flamboyantly-painted face. The sudden splash of color stung my eyes. Some security, Mr. Commissioner. I sat up in bed, grabbing at his muscular forearms beneath the white fabric of the lab coat.

"So, how you doin', kid?" he crossed to the other side of the bed.

I reluctantly let go of his arms, following his every movement with my eyes. He picked up a chart on his way, looking over it in a way that suggested he understood what he saw there. Had his face not been disfigured and painted as it was, I wouldn't have questioned the fact that he was a doctor.

"Looks like they're testing to make sure I didn't poison you with any chemicals on the knife," he slapped the chart shut and leaned heavily on the bed. "Would I do that to you?"

A little giggle popped out of my throat as I rearranged my rigid posture to turn and look at him, resting the side of my head on the pillow. I hoped not.

"Let's take a look," he reached for my left arm.

I was suddenly recalled to the days of toy doctor kits with plastic syringes, tangled string stethoscopes, and blood pressure cuffs that squeaked. Funny, how "playing doctor" used to have such an innocent connotation. Of course, it only felt like playing until the medical tape pulled at my skin and I saw the first bit of burgundy dried blood on the soft, white bandages. Then it was very, very serious. I recoiled, my arm suddenly stiff. Some strangled utterance escaped my mouth before I slapped my hand over it and squeezed my eyes shut.

"Shh, shh. It's okay. It's okay," he said as he gently kissed the tender skin.

His muttering was strangely soothing, though the curiosity on his face as more and more of the tape and gauze came off was not. To distract myself, I looked past his right shoulder at the many monitors. Little green lines were spiking everywhere to the tune of a thousand little beeps.

"Hey, uh..." I reached for his shoulder with my unscathed hand. The fingertips hardly touched the white fabric before I froze in embarrassment and indecision.

It suddenly occurred to me that I had no idea what name to call him by. "The Joker" seemed too impersonal; everyone referred to him as such. I began wondering if he had a real name. Seeing the conflicted expression on my face and seeming to understand why, his tongue flicked out of the corner of his mouth and he returned to the task of torturing my arm.

"You can call me 'the Joker' like everyone else," he said as he tugged at a particularly stubborn piece of tape.

"Oh." The noise was barely audible, but his eyes immediately flicked up to look at me.

"Perhaps 'Supreme Ruler of Everything,' then," he gave a little smirk. "Master? Sex Bomb? Mr. J?"

I tried not to picture Jay Manuel from _America's Next Top Model_ when he said this. On any account, the green lines were settled back into a neat little rhythm and my fears were assuaged. But another rip of the tape saw to that. I gave a little scream this time.

"Come on. Just like taking off a band-aid," he mumbled, flapping his hand around in an attempt to dislodge the piece of tape stuck to his thumb.

"Just sit back," he pressed my shoulder to the pillow.

He grabbed for my arm again and I watched the little lines bounce around on the screen.

"A nurse isn't going to come running in here, right?" I panted. How much tape was on this thing?

"Nah, one's on a cigarette break and the other's in the medical supply closet with the x-ray technician," he said matter-of-factly, the tip of his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth. "Now sit still, I'm almost done."

I laid my head back on the pillow and gritted my teeth, though it wasn't necessary.

"There," he said a moment later.

Despite my churning stomach, I sat up to look at his handiwork. Curiosity killed the cat, and all that. He had succeeded in freeing three sides of the bandage from my skin. The underside of the gauze was stained all sorts of horrible colors from a crusty brown to an oozy gold color. The cut, now a neat little set of stitches like a railroad track in miniature, curved from the heel of my hand to the top side of my forearm somewhere between my wrist and my elbow. I couldn't look at it for more than a few seconds without feeling queasy, so I sat back and let him examine it to his heart's content.

"Ooh," he pulled his lips back and made a hissing noise. "Really gotcha there, didn't I?"

"Yeah," I turned to look at his face as his eyes ran over the damage. "If I'm lucky, maybe I'll get a pretty scar."

He looked up at me with a strange expression on his face. I couldn't tell if he was pleased or appalled by this prospect. I could feel the edges of my lips turning upward as I reached out with my bum hand to lightly touch the scars on his mouth. His eyes dropped, breaking our gaze, and he slowly leaned into the touch, like a dog asking to be petted. My fingers trailed into his hair, combing the ratty green fibers away from his face as he buried it into the side of the itchy hospital mattress. He looked tired.

I could have stayed there like that for any length of time, just touching him, looking at him, having him near me. But fate had another plan for us. I looked up to see a nurse clad in pink scrubs peering through the glass door, a perplexed look on her face. I suppose it did look strange to her - a doctor stooped on the floor beside a patient's bed while she stroked his hair.

"Don't turn around," I hissed urgently.

"Huh?" he made a move to raise his head.

"Don't. Turn. Around," I tilted his face away from the door with my hand on the top of his head before quickly removing it. She was coming in.

"Doctor, is everything all right?" she stuck her head through the door and looked at him where he crouched on the floor.

"Ah, theeere you are!" he stood suddenly, holding a cotton swab aloft.

Quick thinker.

"Just changing Miss Hill's bandages here before I go home for the night," he gave the nurse a little dismissing wave with his hand.

She nodded slowly before deciding that nothing was amiss and backing out of the room.

"Good night, Dr. Marcel," she called as she walked briskly away down the hall.

He heaved a little sigh of relief before gently pressing the tape back onto my skin and smoothing the gauze. He placed a little kiss on my knuckles and threw a glance up to my face. I returned with a smile. His tongue then darted out to quickly moisten my skin before he pressed his lips more passionately to my hand. I slowly sat up and disentangled my legs from the thin sheets to throw my them over the side of the bed. I noticed now that I was dressed in a set of pale blue hospital pajamas, about five sizes too big.

"Where do you think you're going?" his eyes were suddenly open, giving me a disapproving glare.

"Uh... didn't you come here to take me away?" To sweep me off my feet? To take me in your arms and kiss me passionately?

"No, no, no," he pushed me gently back onto the mattress. "Not now. It's 2 AM. You need your rest."

"But..." I protested weakly as he pulled the covers up to my chin and bestowed a gentle kiss on my forehead.

"Sleep tight," was all he said as he turned to leave, switching the television and lights off as he went.

I could feel my face drooping, as if all the strings holding it in a happy position had been cut with his exit.

"Wait!" My call was faint, but he turned to look over his shoulder at me, one hand still on the door.

I looked around the dark hospital room. There was nothing comforting or soothing about it now. All sharp corners and stark medical cleanliness.

"I'm scared," I burrowed down under the staticky sheets and peered at him.

As I said this, his lips broke into a wide smile and he turned on his heels to approach me once more. A deep chuckle rose from his gut, turning into guffaw somewhere in his throat and finally into a cackle as it escaped his red grin. He fell into a chair beside the bed and grabbed for my hand, pressing my fingers to his face and forehead as he continued to convulse with laughter.

"You're scared? You're scared?" he said in an almost taunting manner as he stroked the back of my hand. "I just... burst out of an ice cream cone, fired a gun at you, cut your arm to ribbons, threatened you so you'd kiss me.... But that, all that was fine. Now... _now_ you're scared."

He shook his head, hair softly wriggling back and forth around his face. I uncurled my hand; once more, my fingers reached out to caress his scars. My eyes slowly made their way up to his.

"Stay with me," I said sleepily, my eyelids weighted by drugs and trauma.

I knew that it was selfish of me to ask. I didn't know if he was off to carry out some elaborate heist right now. But in the same instant, I wondered where it was he went to sleep at night. Did he have a home? A bed? Surely he didn't live out of hotels - who would rent him a room? He sucked on his cheeks as he considered my offer.

"Sure," he said at length. "Move over."

I wriggled to the side of the bed as he removed his lab coat and threw it on the chair. He climbed onto the mattress, which squeaked and buckled under his weight. He lay on top of the sheets, his vibrant dress giving a much-needed splash of color to the decor. He settled his head on the pillow facing me and I was struck with how positively, innocently adorable he looked right then. I gave a little giggle and resisted the urge to cry "sleepover!"

"Shh," he ran a gentle hand through my hair.

His fingertips wandered to my eyelids, closing them gently and adding a kiss to seal them shut. He wrapped his arms around my shoulders, drawing me to his chest.

"I won't tell the police about this," I said into the fabric of his shirt.

"I know you won't," the vibrations of his voice buzzed through my body.

Once more, silence filled the room. I wanted to talk to him, to spend this time getting to know him, but I knew that that was a dangerous line that I was treading. The more I knew, the more he had to be wary of me and worry if I might give him away. A weakness, a chip in his steadfast armor. I didn't want that. What I wanted was.... I opened my eyes to look at his beautiful face. The muscles were relaxed and serene, but his breathing had not yet become heavy and deep with sleep.

"Is this love?" I spat the words out. Id overriding the ego again.

"Hm?" his eyelids fluttered to half-mast.

"Is this love?" I clutched my fist to my chest. Beneath my hand, a horribly wrenching, yet oddly mystifying and intoxicating feeling ebbed and flowed as his face moved and caught little waves of emotion.

"For your sake, I hope not."

I thought that that was it. I closed my eyes and let him nestle his face into the crook of my neck. I was just beginning to drift off to sleep, his breathing a rhythmic lullaby, when there was a sharp pinch. His teeth contacted my flesh, a hot tongue darting out to smooth over the forming bruise while sucking lips coaxed it out. I forced my eyes open just in time to see him pulling his tie off of his neck and straddling my hips. The hospital bed creaked and groaned as my wrists were bound above my head by silky material. I gave a cry of joy as he ripped the blue hospital pajama blouse open. A button flew off and skittered along the floor.

A warm feeling spread through my chest as his fingers slipped over my skin, rough and untamed by tradition or societal standards. Pain blended with an happiness into an unspeakable pleasure. An evil cackle broke through the still air - his own brand of sweet nothings. I threw my head back and joined in his laughter as he ground his lower body against mine. Love? Ha! What claim did _love_ have on this feeling?

_{It was a very sappy chapter, yes. I was afraid of that. I said the L-O-V-E word. I very nearly stopped at the line "For your sake, I hope not." But I couldn't leave it like that. There hasn't been nearly enough steamy sex in this story. Is this an M-rated fic or is it not? And sex in a hospital is so delightfully taboo. I want to marry a handsome doctor soooo badly....}_

_Next Chapter: How about I screw with another sacred institution: prom!_


	7. The Persistence of Memory

_Oooooo-tay!_

**Chapter 7: The Persistence of Memory**

I awoke to the sound of voices. They melded with those of my dreams, tricking my barely conscious mind into thinking that he was whispering in my ear as I slowly came to. But I suppose that terror is a nice way to wake up, too. A body fell heavily against my back and Hermés' chortling deafened my right ear. I was on the point of rolling over and pulling the sheets over my head to return to my dream world where the Joker was impersonating a doctor and tying me to hospital beds; then I realized that for once, my far-fetched fantasies had wandered into reality. Far from being a joyous realization, my heart skipped suddenly from a lazy little plod to the beating of a hummingbird's wings. My eyes watered with the sudden light when I so rudely ripped them from their slumber and sat up in bed. I looked at the spot where he had been last night, now an empty, wrinkled, impression on the papery sheets. Always one step ahead.

"Good morning!" Hermés cried thunderously à la _Sukisho_'s Matsuri, a favorite past time of hers.

I gave a little groan. Leave it to Hermés to scare men away from me.

"Geez, Donna, you must flail a lot in your sleep," Belle was pulling at the mangled ball of sheets at the foot of the bed. "Most of them aren't even on the bed anymore."

I could feel my face growing fiery under my hands as I tried to beat the images of last night's frenzy back with a mental stick.

"What are you doing here?" I rubbed at my eyes and sat up in bed, discreetly buttoning the flapping pajama top the rest of the way shut.

Hermés nudged me out of the way as she climbed onto the bed to sit beside me. She had probably just come to gloat that for once, she was awake before I was. She latched her arms around me, her poor balance nearly throwing me to the floor. I didn't feel like being treated for a concussion that morning, so I scooted over to accommodate her. The sheets beside me, far from having grown cold and stiff in the night, were still warm with body heat.

"We're busting you out!" Hermés cried into my shoulder.

"We're going prom dress shopping and you're coming with us," Belle clarified.

She turned to seat herself on the end of the bed and as she did, I caught sight of the white bandage that took up the majority of her left cheek.

"Ooh, what's the damage there?" I wriggled uncomfortably under the sheets, guilt pulling at my chest.

"This? Yeah." She put her hand to the bandage and gave a little wince. "Ten stitches. How'd you make out?"

My groggy mind swam as images of the wound lurking beneath the white gauze threatened to turn my stomach inside out.

"Just a scratch," I said quietly, mentally replaying the much preferred image of his lips on my skin as he removed the bandages.

"And _I'm_ the one that's accident prone!" Hermés declared proudly.

An understatement. Rarely was there a gym class where she didn't leave with a bag of ice pressed to her arm or face. She had made tripping up the stairs into a daily occasion. I suppose it was nice to be on the other side of schadenfreude for once.

As she was gloating over our misfortune, the door opened and my heart skipped a beat when I saw a white lab coat. Sadly, the costume was not accompanied by a heavily made-up face, only a fairly handsome one bordered with long hair. Seeing my distressed reaction to the visitor, Hermés turned to see who it was.

"Hello there, ladies," he said in a tone that was meant to be jovial and friendly, but just seemed forced and void of any sincere emotion. "I'm Dr. Marcel. I just came in to check on...." Here, he threw a hurried look at my chart before tacking my name onto the end of the sentence as a sad attempt at familiarity.

"Oh!" Hermés' eyes lit up when he spoke. She flailed into action, her high heels tangling in the hem of her skirt and nearly ending her reign as the only one of us without stitches. She threw her legs over the side of the bed and swung them viciously, an attempt at soppy innocence on her face.

"How are we feeling, Donna?" He used my name as if he hadn't just learned it thirty seconds before. We? Well, I couldn't speak for him, but I was feeling pretty crummy. "What nice friends you have, coming to visit you."

"Oh, Donna's feeling much better, aren't you, Donna?" Hermés babbled, leaning across me to talk to the doctor. "In fact, I think she might be ready to...."

Hermés' jibber-jabber was momentarily interrupted by me crying out in pain, not that it hindered her much. I looked down at my arm to see one full side of the bandage swinging free. It felt like the quack had just ripped a hunk of flesh off of my ulna. I immediately withdrew my arm from his grasp.

"I'm just checking your sutures," he said very slowly, as if talking me down from the top of a building. "Just making sure there's no discharge, pus, swelling...."

There was that sick feeling again. Perhaps Dr. Marcel should rethink his profession; a man who threatened to kill hundreds of civilians with explosives on a regular basis was proving to be more gentle and nurturing than he was. I had some serious misgivings about returning my throbbing arm to his care, but Hermés gave my elbow a shove and guided my wrist back into his talons before I could have a say in it. Belle watched as he returned to jabbing away my arm, one hand resting on her bandaged cheek as if she feared he might turn on her next.

"As I was saying," Hermés threw her annoyance with me aside and returned to her girlish simper. "We just dropped by hoping that Donna could join us...."

"Wow, Donna." This time, it was Belle who interrupted Hermés' attempt at artfully springing me from my bleak, white cell. "He really must have grabbed you hard. Look at your wrists."

Suddenly, everyone was. Little reddish cuffs circled my wrists, a tiny bit of passion residue.

"I don't recall anything about abrasions on your wrists." Dr. Marcel grabbed for his handy-dandy chart and began flipping through pages.

Much as I would have liked to share my sexual escapades with all of them, I decided that it was best to flee. I threw Hermés a look that clearly said, "get me the Hell out of here." She read it loud and clear.

"Oh, is it serious, doctor?" she gasped in a dramatic fashion. All she had to do was announce that she had an evil twin and we would have a soap opera.

"Well, no," he muttered and grumbled as he set the chart aside and wheeled himself over to a cabinet. I nearly expected him to pull out a medical text book to look up "abrasions." Instead, he began collecting an arsenal of medical supplies, among them a handful of cotton balls and a bottle full of something that looked suspiciously as if it would burn like acid if dabbed on my skin. Before the scream gurgling up my throat could break free, Hermés spoke up.

"Well, will she be able to leave today?" She slowly began lowering herself from the bed, eyes still trained on the doctor as she felt around for some sort of answer from him.

"I... suppose so," he said in an offhand fashion as he tried to balance a pair of menacing pincers on a pile of gauze in his hands.

These seemed to be the magic words that Hermés was looking for. She hopped down from the bed, her stilettos making a horrible screech on the flooring.

"You heard him, Donna!" She grabbed my hand and pulled me off the bed, making a swift beeline for the door. "Let's go get you a pretty dress."

Belle clattered after us, doubtlessly afraid of being left alone with Dr. Sadistic (and not in the good way). He stared after us with a dismayed expression on his face and his variety of torture devices lying unused in his hands. On the way out the door, we nearly took out the nurse in pink. She hardly took notice of the patient making a frantic break for it and instead mused, "Oh, you're here early, Dr. Marcel."

-------

The white gauze and medical tape were a nice accessory to the bubblegum pink dress. I felt like I was wearing something that belonged on a dessert platter as I reached behind to unzip it.

"Let us see!" Belle whined from outside the fitting room door, her voice barely audible over the thunderous rustling of the grandiose skirt.

"It doesn't fit," I lied, cringing as I gave the stubborn zipper a hard tug.

"Oh, try these then," Hermés spoke before a substantial pile of dresses made a heavy thud against the door.

"Can't you guys go find your own dresses and stop dumping them on me?" I snapped.

The zipper finally gave way, coupled with a nasty ripping noise. I kicked it across the room before hastily throwing it on a hanger. Maybe no one would notice.

"We already have our dresses." Hermés' voice was far away again; she was surely returning to search for more fabric confections. "I got mine while I was in Paris. It's a gooorgeous vintage wedding gown. White. And it has this beautiful gold and peach embroidery on the top and oh...."

"I got mine over the summer," Belle piped up as Hermés' voice was drowned out by the quiet music piping in from the speakers overhead and the sound of clanking hangers. "Ooh, try this blue one on next."

I grabbed at the wriggling turquoise skirt and pulled it over the door. The bodice was encrusted with beads and sequins in girly shades of baby pink and purple. As with all of the other dresses I had tried on that day, I held it up to myself and wondered what the Joker would think of it. At once, I made a face. It really didn't seem like his cup of tea. Though this didn't keep me from imagining him biting each candy-like bead off one by one. Something slinky in red or black seemed more his speed, slits and painted-on bodices in silk, satin, or velvet. In fact, he seemed like he could care less about the clothing, he just wanted the naked woman. All business.

I pulled the rest of the dresses down and rambled through them - all colorful taffeta, full skirts, gauzy, flowery embroidery and gemstones. Normally, these dresses would have delighted me, but I was dressing to impress and something told me that he wouldn't be impressed by a little girl in a pink tutu. I needed something mature, something sexy. The kind of prom dress that Veronica Jessup and all of the popular girls wore. I continued digging through the pile until my hands hit the slippery fabric - a deep plum gown that I had picked out myself and snuck into the fitting room before Hermés and Belle could see it. I pulled it over my hips, the fabric turning from flowing water to constricting steel as I zipped it up. It was low-cut in the front and hugged my hips before shooting straight to the floor and into an elegant train. I could see the Joker smiling in my head now, nodding approvingly. I closed my eyes and felt his bare hands gliding over the fabric, over my arms, giving the tie behind my neck a tug....

"Donna! You okay?" Hermés' voice interrupted my reverie. My heart was suddenly beating faster for a different reason. I felt incredibly self-conscious. This wasn't at all a "Donna" dress. Quickly, I grabbed a ball of white fabric and threw it on, reluctantly discarding the purple fantasy dress in the corner.

The new dress fell just to my knees, a skirt of itchy gauze layers embellished with bits of silver glitter. This was a "Donna" dress. I sighed before plastering a smile on my face and walking out.

"I like this one," I said as Belle and Hermés cooed over how pretty I was and the imaginary Joker frowned and shook his head.

_{Chapter 7! It's a really very boring chapter because the Joker in nowhere to be seen, but it's kind of a necessary evil leading up to the next chapter, which I promise will be good. Think naked Joker in the shower good. Thanks to some crazed fan-freaks named Master Akira("Hermes") and "Belle," I have a backup of new ideas But it may be a while before I'm able to do any steamy sex scenes again. I've come into some rather unfortunate news in my everyday life and I'm kind of shying away from writing about sex for now. But when I am ready to write chapter 8, there will be lots of sexy Joker nudity. It just might take a while. (Vomits in nearby trashcan.) A long while. In the meantime, I might have to write a Joker x Two-Face story.}_

_Coming not-so-soon in Chapter 8: Prom night! When I first saw TDK, I wrote a whole story about the Joker crashing a prom, so I'm going to use a few ideas from that. There may even be car sex - I watched this hilarious how-to video on Youtube and no prom is complete without it. Oh, and I promise a naked Joker in the shower. Fluffy pink towels!_

_Thanks so much for reading! Even you, Master Akira and "Belle." _


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